Before they left, Tracy walked over with Joe and placed her mother’s framed photograph in the middle of the flower arrangements. “It’s too small,” she mumbled, staring at the bronze plaque bearing her mother’s name.
“Mommy,” the boy said, pointing at the picture.
“Don’t worry, Joe,” Tracy told him, leading him across the lawn. “We’re not poor anymore. We don’t have to settle for their stupid little plaque. We’ll buy Mom a big monument, a statue maybe. We’ll make them put it right here where everyone will see it.”
Joe broke away from her, running over and leaping into Carrie’s arms. Tracy stood in the center of the lawn, imagining how the statue of her mother would look. The spot she had picked was surrounded by trees. She could almost hear her mother’s voice whispering among the leaves.
Excerpt from Trial By Fire
Be sure to read this bestseller
by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
TRIAL BY FIRE
available in a Signet edition
The corridor outside the courtroom resembled the inside of a TV station. Lights, tripods, steel equipment cases, twisted cords, and heavy cables were strewn around in the narrow corridor while technicians sprawled out along the walls, sipping coffee and talking among themselves. A reporter for the Dallas Morning News spotted the prosecutor, Stella Cataloni, and the Dallas County District Attorney, Benjamin Growman, huddled in a comer in the corridor. Thinking he might be able to get a statement during the recess, he rushed over. “Do you think Gregory Pelham will be convicted this time?” he said, holding his portable tape recorder up close to the district attorney’s face.
“Absolutely.” Tall and lean, Growman was dressed in a dark Armani suit and a white starched shirt bearing his initials. His nose was pronounced, his eyes closely set, and his lips thin. At fifty-seven, his hair was sprinkled with gray, but he was still a handsome man, accomplished and confident.
“Why did he get off the first time?”
“The trial resulted in a hung jury,” Growman answered. “You know all of this, Abernathy. Give us some space here.” He turned back to his conversation, but Abernathy continued thrusting the tape recorder at him.
“Pellham was recently arrested for attempting to molest a child,” the reporter said. “Is this why you decided to retry him on the old homicide charges? Why didn’t you just prosecute him on the new crime? Aren’t you afraid the jury will acquit him this time? Once he’s acquitted, he can’t be retried again. Isn’t that true?”
“Once he’s convicted on the murder charges, we’ll prosecute him on the new charges,” Stella Cataloni interjected. “Turn off the tape recorder, Charley. Ben and I have some things to discuss right now.”
At thirty-four, Stella was an intelligent and determined woman whom the press had dubbed the “Italian Wildcat.” She was also a Texas beauty. Dressed in a yellow linen suit, she had ebony hair that fell to her shoulders in natural, soft waves. Her luminous brown eyes were flecked with gold, and her skin appeared flawless. She wore the left side of her hair pushed back behind one ear, allowing the other side to spill forward and obscure her face. Her walk was purposeful and her footsteps heavy, belying the lightness of her slender yet curvaceous body.
“How long is the recess?” Growman asked once the reporter had walked off. It was the second week in August and the temperature was a scorching hundred and five degrees. The air-conditioning in the Frank Crowley courts building in downtown Dallas was operating, but when it got this hot, it seldom brought the temperature down below eighty degrees. Taking out his handkerchief, Growman wiped his face and neck.
Stella glanced at her watch. “Only five minutes left,” she said, “and I didn’t even have time to stop by the office. I wanted to see if the coroner’s report on the Walden case has come in yet.”
Growman frowned. “Worry about your closing argument right now,” he said. “Everything else can wait.”
“I’m about to conclude,” she said, connecting with his eyes. “Depending on how long the jury deliberates, we could have a verdict by this evening.”
“How do you feel?” he said. “Do you think it’s in the bag?”
“I feel good,” she said, smiling nervously. “Of course if the jury stays out longer than three or four hours, I’ll be ready to slit my wrists.” The smile disappeared. Outspoken and feisty, Stella had shot to the number-two position in die Dallas County District Attorney’s office in only seven years. Riding a wave of good fortune and backing it with talent and skill, she had achieved a remarkable one hundred percent conviction record. She wasn’t about to lose a case now.
Ben Growman ran his hands through his hair. “Kominsky said you bullied some of the witnesses,” he said. “I’ve warned you about that. The last thing you want in a case like this is to alienate the jurors.”
“It’s a six-year-old homicide,” Stella fired back, her voice echoing in the tiled corridor. “Even the best memories dull after so long, Ben, and our witnesses were all over the place in there. I was trying to force them to go the distance.”
When the defendant, Gregory James Pelham, a drifter and dangerous psychopath, had originally been tried six years before for the murder of a young retarded boy named Ricky McKinley, the jury had been hung and Pelham had been set free. Although the new crime he had been charged with was minor compared to the McKinley homicide, it had brought the defendant back into the limelight and the public was now screaming for vengeance. The media blamed the district attorney’s office for letting a dangerous criminal slip through its fingers, the mayor and city council members were crawling up Growman’s ass demanding he get the man behind bars, and the whole country was watching the drama unfold on national television.
Growman leaned into Stella’s face. “You have to bring in this conviction,” he said, his breath as hot as a blowtorch. “We can’t let this man go free again. We’re lucky he didn’t kill this other kid or throw battery acid in his face like he did with the McKinley boy.”
“Look,” Stella said, her temper flaring, “don’t you think I want this as bad as you? I’ve spent so much time on this case my husband frigging left me. What do you want from me?” she spat. “Blood?”
“Control yourself.” Growman jerked his head in the direction of the reporters. “Save your energy for the courtroom.”
Stella slapped back against the wall, her dark eyes blazing. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to compose herself. She watched as the doors to the courtroom swung open and people started streaming in and scrambling for seats. Growman had taught her that emotional outbursts were unnecessary expulsions of energy. With careful coaching, he had channeled Stella’s raw and somewhat uncontrollable talent into qualities that had made her a consistent winner.
In many ways, though, Stella felt like Growman’s invention. His career had been on the skids several years back, and in Stella, he had created the exact vehicle he needed to propel him back to the top. She was his rocket launcher, his henchman, his gunslinger. In her present position Stella acted more as an administrator and counselor to the scores of attorneys who worked beneath her, advising them on finer points of law, helping them devise case strategies, analyze jurors. Dozens of other prosecutors could have tried the Pelham case, able attorneys who had less to lose because they weren’t sitting on top of a perfect conviction record. Growman had insisted that she take on the case, though, claiming she was the only one who could bring in the conviction.
“Ricky McKinley is dead.” he said, his voice low. “Are you going to let the person who put him in his grave go free? You, of all people, should know the agony he suffered. A poor, pathetic kid, Stella. How many more kids are we going to let this bastard mutilate and kill?”
Stella blinked back tears. Then an idea appeared in her mind. She could dispel her image as a bully in the eyes of the jurors, and at the same time bring the case back to life. Blood rushed to her face. Could she do it? Everyone was counting on her. How could she let this monster walk out of the
courtroom again when his fate rested in her hands?
This time, Stella thought with steely determination, Gregory James Pelham was not going to escape punishment. As far she was concerned, Mr. Pelham had reached the end of the line. “Quick,” she said. “I need a rubber band.”
Five minutes later, a different prosecutor strode down the aisle to the counsel table. Now Stella’s hair was secured in a tight ponytail at the base of her neck, and an ugly, abraded scar was fully visible on the right side of her face. Her walk was more tentative, her eyes downcast, and she sucked a comer of her lip into her mouth to keep it from trembling.
Every seat was taken. Reporters and spectators were standing along the back walls. As Stella continued down the aisle, she heard people gasp and whisper, their combined voices becoming an annoying buzz inside her head. They were like a hive of killer bees, she thought, ready to swarm all over her and sting her to death. When she reached the counsel table and dropped down in her seat, a reporter crept over and started snapping pictures from a kneeling position. “What happened to your face?” he said. “Is that scar real?”
Stella became enraged over the man’s stupidity. “You’ll get your chance later,” she said, lashing out with her hand and knocking the camera aside. Seeing the jurors being led in by the bailiff, she quickly organized her notes on the table and tuned out the cacophony around her. The judge was on the stand, the jury in the box, and Stella was ready to get down to the business at hand.
Stella’s co-counsel on the Pelham case was Larry Kominsky, a bright young attorney with red hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. Seated between them at the counsel table was a woman with large expressive eyes and a regal face. Brenda Anderson was the D.A.‘s investigator assigned to the case. An African-American, Anderson held an undergraduate degree in computer science and a master’s in criminology. She had worked her way up through the ranks of the Dallas Police Department before obtaining her present position, and was now recognized throughout the state as the technical wizard of the Dallas District Attorney’s Office. Seeing the scar, she exclaimed, “My God, Stella, what did you do to yourself?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Stella whispered. “Right now we’re going to kick some ass.”
“Ms. Cataloni,” Judge Malcolm Chambers said into the microphone, pausing until Stella looked up. Chambers’s face was tired and lined, his white hair unruly, and his glasses perched far down on his nose. If he noticed the scar, he didn’t react. “You may resume where you left off prior to recess.”
“Thank you. Your Honor,” Stella said. Standing and glancing over at the jurors, she saw the shock register on their faces when they spotted the scar. Look all you want, she told them in her mind, just listen close because I’m about to connect the dots.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning slightly so she was facing the jurors, but keeping the right side of her face clearly within their sight. “Before we recessed, I reiterated the facts the state has presented in this case. Before you begin your deliberations, I want you to remember the victim in this case. Remember the autopsy photos you viewed during the course of this trial.” Stella lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Imagine, if you can, what Ricky McKinley would have looked like had he managed to survive the defendant’s savage attack.” She stopped and waited, standing as still as a statue, her face completely expressionless.
“Why am I asking you to do this?” she finally continued.
“I’m asking you to do it because Ricky McKinley didn’t survive. He isn’t here to confront his attacker, to tell you firsthand of the agony and horror he was made to endure at the hands of the defendant. Even if this child had escaped death somehow, he would have led a life of anguish and despair. He would have never looked normal, never been accepted by his peers, never been free of fear. You can’t hear his pleas for justice, as they are only ghostly cries from the grave,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I can hear his cries, though, just as I can imagine the unbearable pain he must have suffered when the defendant tossed battery acid in his face.”
Stella walked over to the jury box. One finger trailing along the railing, she continued, “For six years, Ricky McKinley has been dead. And for six years, the man who brutalized and murdered him has walked the streets as a free man.”
The courtroom was silent. No one whispered, no one moved, no clothes rustled. Every eye was glued on Stella, the jurors tracking her as she paced, never for one second looking away. Stella’s brow and upper lip were moist with perspiration, and she could feel sweat trickling between her breasts and soaking her armpits. “This despicable person, this predator,” she said, throwing her arm out in the direction of the defendant, “lured Ricky McKinley into his car, drove him to a cheap motel, and viciously sodomized him. He then beat him to within an inch of his life, sprayed shaving cream in his mouth and nose, and made him cower in the comer under a table. Was that enough?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “The defendant’s perverted cravings were satisfied. What more could he want?” She paused and shrugged, as if she were waiting for someone to give her the answer.
“No,” she suddenly shouted, her body trembling with emotion, “it was not enough.” Her speech became faster as she gathered momentum. “He proceeded to carry Ricky’s bloody and battered body to the trunk of his car. He then drove to an isolated field and threw battery acid in his face, eating the skin off the bone. He didn’t care that Ricky was mutilated beyond recognition, that his body would later be identified only through dental records, his face unrecognizable even to the woman who gave birth to him. All the defendant cared about was avoiding arrest, making certain that this pathetic child never identified him and caused him to suffer the consequences of his actions. In order to feel safe,” she said, “Gregory Pelham had to blind an eight-year-old child.”
Striding back to the counsel table, Stella looked over at Judy McKinley, the victim’s mother, seated in the second row behind the counsel table. The woman’s shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down her face. Reaching over and touching her arm, Stella then spun back to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “the fate of this man now rests in your hands, along with the fate of his future victims.” She searched the jurors’ faces, as if she were committing them to memory and holding each of them accountable. “Once you have considered the overwhelming evidence the state has presented,” she said slowly and distinctly, “you will know that there is only one verdict that can be returned in this case. As Ricky’s avenging angels, you must put this man behind bars where he belongs and allow this poor child’s soul to finally find peace.”
The jury deliberated two hours.
Having been notified by the bailiff that the verdict was in, Stella hurried back to the courtroom with Ben Growman, Larry Kominsky, and Brenda Anderson, all of them anxious. Kominsky appeared younger than his thirty-one years. A West Point graduate, he had abandoned his military career to become an attorney. Next to Stella, he was one of Dallas’s finest prosecutors, his diminutive size and fresh-faced appearance making him appear deceptively innocent and naive.
Brenda Anderson was dressed in a conservative knit dress, the hemline several inches below her knees. Her neck was long and elegant, her hair worn in a tight knot at the base of her head. Reserved when she was in a group, but outspoken when she related on an individual basis, she was walking next to Stella with her head down.
“We’ve got it,” Kominsky said, looking up at the ceiling as if the word had just come down from God himself. “The jury was only out two hours. Your decision to expose your scar was brilliant, Stella. There’s no way they’ll acquit the bastard now.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Growman said, yanking on his shirt cuffs. He stopped and faced Kominsky, hissing his words through his teeth. “Don’t you have an ounce of sense? Don’t you realize what it took for this woman to expose herself in front of the cameras?”
The attorney looked at Stella and blanched. Her hair was still tied back and she had place
d her hand over her cheek to cover the scar. “I’m sorry, okay,” he said. “I didn’t think. Please, forgive me, Stella, but…it was great, you know. The part I liked best was, ‘Imagine, if you can.’ Man, was that a piece of work. You should have seen the jurors’ faces.”
“Thanks Larry,” Stella said, flinging open the door to the courtroom. “Let’s just hope it worked.”
The three attorneys took their seats. It was after six and most of the spectators had gone home, not expecting a verdict until the following day. Only the press and members of the immediate family were assembled in the courtroom. Since Growman was present, Brenda Anderson slipped into the front row next to Judy McKinley and a few other members of the victim’s family. Once the jury had filed in and been seated, the judge called die court to order and asked the jurors if they had reached a verdict.
“Yes, we have,” said the foreman, an older man with wire-framed glasses and red suspenders.
“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge said.
Gregory Pelham was a short, dark-skinned man with heavy-lidded eyes and rust-colored hair. He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, a paisley print tie, and a pink shirt. When his attorney nudged him, he pushed to his feet and scowled at Stella before turning to face the front of the courtroom.
“You may read the verdict,” the judge told the foreman.
“We, the jury,” the foreman read, “find the defendant guilty of the offense of murder in the death of Richard W. McKinley, as charged in Count One of the indictment.”
Stella bolted straight up in her seat. Growman pulled her back down. He was pleased, but there were additional charges, and he wanted to hear the jurors’ decisions on these as well. Due to the age of the case and the lack of substantial evidence that the defendant had premeditated his attack, the state had not filed charges of capital murder, an offense which carried the death penalty. They had, however, filed several other charges, the most significant of them being kidnapping.
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